She Walks Right Through Me
by martiansarepeopletoo
Summary: 16 year old Rory Williams has always been fanatic about ghosts, and seeing 'Her' at Brokestone House is something he's always dreamed of. What he finds when he finally arrives is something shockingly different. Time fades everything here and the threat of losing what's becoming the most precious thing in his life begins tearing him apart, but Rory can't cling to the past forever...


So I am an avid Alex Day fan, and I love his song She Walks Right Through Me. Watching the video, knowing he wanted Karen Gillian in it, naturally got me thinking, and as I am a huge Rory/Amy shipper, the story pretty much presented itself to me. If you haven't listened to the song, I highly recommend it, and all of Alex's stuff in general. He's fantastic, and I love him :) Well, that's just about it… enjoy!

* * *

Thinking about it, Rory's always been into ghost stories. When he was younger, he would never fail to request them at bedtime, and although his parents worried he might get nightmares he never did. It was his thing. Some kids get into superheroes, some kids get into dinosaurs, and Rory got into ghost stories. Being one of the shy kids at school, he wasn't often invited to sleepovers, but at the few he did go to it was always guaranteed he would manage to put the fear of God into the other kids, the only one that got any sleep after his dramatic tellings of hauntings and phantoms.

By the time he started secondary school, it became more than just a fancy; it was his hobby. He spent his lunchtimes in the library, looking up cases and scientific experiments that no one could explain the results to. The other kids in his class thankfully frequented the library less than often, which was good considering he'd been bumped up from Quiet Nerd to full on Serious Nutjob ever since they found out about his fascination with the supernatural. They pretty much made his life hell as often as they could, but none of them would be seen dead going into the library voluntarily, so it became his safe haven. At home, he was holed up in his room more often than not, reading fantasy and books on the unexplainable. Either that or on the computer, chatting with other enthusiasts on the internet. And now, in his final year at school, when Jeff Baker and the other boys in his year tell him he's a loner who has no life, he never disagrees with them because, to be perfectly honest, they're telling the truth. He's tragic, really. Living a completely pointless existence, studying what most of society view to be a completely pointless branch of 'science'.

Yes, when it comes down to it, Rory Williams is really not the sort of sixteen year old you'd normally find shimmying down the drainpipe outside his window in the middle of the night so his parents have no idea he's snuck out. And yet here he is, doing just that.

Well, attempting to do just that.

It isn't really his _fault_ that he's gotten tangled up in the ivy. He's been completely misinformed on the drainpipe theory. In films, people slide down them swiftly and silently, the plastic helping rather than hindering them. In reality, it's the exact opposite, and Rory's fingertips are sanded raw from gripping the stone windowsill he'd tried to hang onto when he'd realised the issue with the ivy. Logically, he knows the only real solution is to let go and fall the remaining distance of about six feet. But it's _concrete_ down there, and that stuff is _hard_. He should know, he broke his arm on it once falling over when he was seven. But, on the other hand, six feet is like the height of his dad, which is shorter than Rory himself. So this distance is shorter than his own height. He walks around at his own height full time. This should not be difficult. Taking a deep breath, he squeezes his eyes shut and, without overthinking it too much, lets go.

Right, of course. Of course. He's Rory Williams. And is therefore always going to get the worst of things. But, come on, _really_? He fell feet first, and he even remembered to bend his knees! But the sharp ache in his tailbone tells him he's definitely bruised the bone, if not worse, and it's with a short, breathless gasp and a wince that he gets to his feet. He stands still for a second, waiting to hear his parents stirring, but when no sound meets his ears he limps off out of the back gate, silently cursing whoever invented concrete. And drainpipes. And ivy.

* * *

The Brokestone House on the edge of town has always been a place of attraction to ghost hunters and fanatics. With the record number of sightings for a single ghost, it's no wonder people flock there. The chance of seeing Her is something ridiculously high, 78% of people who go there on Thursday nights have seen her, most commonly at around 1 am. Rory's been desperate to see Her for _ages_, but between his parents and the stupid trust that owns the house, he's never been able to get away with it. His parents, obviously, have their concerns about their sixteen year old son wandering around a dark manor house alone in the middle of the night, and the trust only open the house that late if you're 'seriously involved in the study of the paranormal'. Which you can apparently only be if you're over eighteen years of age. Rory's shown them the papers he's written, the theories he's come up with completely by himself, but unfortunately he doesn't seem to be taking the subject 'seriously' enough. So, he's decided to go and check the place out for himself.

This idea seemed a lot better from the safety of his bedroom. Because, looking up at the giant outline of the house against the midnight blue sky, it's actually a bit creepy. But he can handle it. Ghost stories have never scared him. It's just a bit cold, that must be why he's shaking.

Fumbling in his pocket, he removes a small deep red pouch. He pulls the drawstrings and extracts the lock-picking equipment he bought online a few weeks ago. He's gotten pretty good at it too, and he's hoping the lock on this door won't be too extravagant for him. He walks up to the heavy oak door, and is slightly surprised to see there's nothing complex there at all. Just an ordinary lock. The trust probably doesn't want to destroy the charm of the house by adding a modern technological contraption to the front of the it, that'll be it.

He picks the lock in under a minute, and it's with a proud grin on his face that he pushes the door open wide. Of course, when he sees the dark hall (which looks every bit the Hollywood haunted house), he practically shits a brick, but he takes a deep breath and pulls out his torch, shining it dead ahead of him. The hall is _massive_, all candlesticks and grandfather clocks, but the really worrying part is that there are mirrors all over the place. Big, small, in gilded frames or plain, they are hung all over the walls. Rory isn't afraid of mirrors, per se – he's not _that_ ugly – but these are creeping him out. The torchlight reflecting in them makes weird shadows and highlights on the walls, and he doesn't like it. Plus, every time he sees himself in one, he jumps out of his skin.

Moving further into the room, he pulls out his ground plan of the building. He knows where he needs to go, the library – that's where people see Her most often – but it's five rooms away and he's not sure he's going to hold up. This is _really scary._ And he's probably just imagining it, although thinking about it that's what people always say, but the temperature in here seems to be a good few degrees lower than outside. Colder than the Great British Outdoors in the middle of the night? That's definitely not natural. Urgh. Why did he come here again?

He shakes his head. No. He's going to do this. Positive Mental Attitude. So, breathing hard and pretending his heart isn't thumping so hard he's actually slightly worried a heart attack is on the cards, he points his torch towards the door he knows he has to go through and heads straight for it. Pushing open the heavy, dark wooden door, he finds himself in some sort of drawing room. He doesn't linger there long, the gothic furniture completely out of place next to the flowered wallpaper, and passes through into a bedroom. Then, a gallery and a tiny room containing a mishmash of suitcases and boxes that all look about a thousand years old. There's also a room containing a tin bath and a washstand, with very extravagant carvings on them, and finally he opens the door on the last room before the library.

It's a nursery. And it's creepy.

Rocking horse, rickety crib, doll's house with staring china dolls lying on the floor next to it – the whole caboodle. Very horr or movie. Rory half expects a possessed kid to leap out at him any second, but nothing happens. It's just quiet. He walks over to the crib, and gives it a tentative push. It creaks loudly in the silence, and he jumps. And then –

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

There's a blanket in there. A white satin blanket, edged with lace, clearly old and incredibly beautiful. And there, right in the centre, looking so perfectly placed it could have been put there deliberately, is a dark stain.

He's shaking. This is horrible, this is _horrible_, because he can tell exactly what that is. That is blood, and it's sent an ice shot through his veins. And that blood looked old. Dried, reddish brown in the torchlight, and there's something even more sickening about it – there are _lumps_ in it. Little, stuck firm to the blanket, but still they're there. And he's sorry, he knows he's here for a purpose, but all thoughts of seeing ghosts are wiped from his mind as he runs blindly through the nearest door. It's only when he trips on a table leg that he stops and forces himself to breathe. _Be rational_, he tells himself. _That blanket was old, it was probably from years ago. Back when the house was inhabited. You're being stupid. And you're here to see Her anyway, so stop freaking out and get your ghost cap on._

He stands, checking his equipment and pretending he's completely fine. Which is a bit stupid, to be honest, as there's no one around to see, but it makes him feel better and he's not judging himself so why the hell not? He's calm, he's controlled. He is a motherfucking ghost watcher. As he stands tall, a smile on his face, he suddenly notices he's in the library. Her room.

He's barely had time to acknowledge that he's actually _there_, before an ice cold hand has gently closed around his wrist and the fear overcomes him as he passes out.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I do have another multi chapter on at the moment, for Supernatural, but I will try and update as often as possible. I hope you liked it – constructive criticism is welcome :)

Iliketotastetherainbow x


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